


i haven't left your bed since

by casualbird



Series: ukai gets wrecked [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Established Relationship, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Praise Kink, Trans Male Character, gay gay gay gay gay, ukai loses his god damn mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27073819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: "'Do you want me to take care of you, Keishin?'His voice is petal-plush, jewel-toned, lovely. Smoothly, heroically, Keishin chokes on his own throat."Nobody has ever called Keishinbeautifulbefore.
Relationships: Takeda Ittetsu/Ukai Keishin
Series: ukai gets wrecked [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003683
Comments: 15
Kudos: 172





	i haven't left your bed since

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my BEST FRIEND DANNY WHOM I LOVE WITH ALL MY SOUL](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=my+BEST+FRIEND+DANNY+WHOM+I+LOVE+WITH+ALL+MY+SOUL).



> hlo hlo! this is my first work in this fandom--my haikyuu debut!
> 
> just wanted to let you know that takeda is trans and i use masculine-coded language for his Downstairs, and i hope that's comfortable for you!
> 
> anyway enjoy!!!!

The bottle of sake on the coffee table, forgotten at three-quarters full, is a negligible loss. No worse than a picked stitch on a blanket, even though five minutes prior it’d amounted to their entire evening.

Five minutes prior, nobody had ever called Keishin _lovely_ in his life.

It’d seemed--incongruous, somehow, not the right word to use. Ittetsu was always on about the lightning vs. the lightning bug, and the endearment hit that off beat until--

\--Until it didn’t, and Keishin was _thunderstruck_ with the tone and timbre of it. With that gentle earnest smile, with the eye-glint behind thick lenses that always insisted _yes, I know what I said._

_I know, and I believe it._

And whether it was the best or most obnoxious thing about him, Ittetsu was _always_ right.

They’d spent the rest of those five minutes in bliss until their lips were slick and swollen, until Keishin’s seat on the couch was hemmed in by Ittetsu’s warm body, his soft clutching thighs.

Until the glasses come off, gone the way of the sake bottle, and Keishin shudders with the first unfettered brush of cheekbone, the first slow press of their foreheads, that familiar clever smile that he now knows by _feel._

He scrabbles a bit, fingers curling in Ittetsu’s crisp linen shirt, palms struggling for purchase on the sly arch of his back, the soft-covered ridge of his spine.

“You’re just lovely,” says Ittetsu again, a sublime breathy variant on bullheaded sincerity. “Beautiful,” as if stating certain fact, as if nuzzling to the ear of the sky and whispering ‘blue.’

“Y’re farsighted,” Keishin says, stumbling weak over his words. “You can’t see a thing.”

A widened, winded smile--Keishin feels the appling of Ittetsu’s cheek on his, shivers with it.

“Hm, no,” and a little laugh. The brush of black-satin hair against his temple. “I think I’ve made enough of a study of you by now.”

Ittetsu kisses his face, then, gentling him through the noise he makes--a wince, utterly devoid of dignity or machismo or anything else he probably ought to have. He still feels that smile with every press of lips to his jawbone, the corners of his mouth and eyes.

It rests on him, a moment, while fingers leave the dips between his ribs, catch his hands at the wrist. While Ittetsu slips them to the hem of his sage-colored shirt, just the slightest bit up and under until Keishin’s fingertips steeple against the gentle bare-skin swell of hips.

“Okay?”

“Mmngph,” he responds, quite in the affirmative. His hands hover stiffly where they’re placed, unsure of their next move, which of any thousands of ways to draw him closer would be best.

Ittetsu takes it in his own time, though, nuzzling under the half-zipped collar of Keishin’s track jacket, raining little kisses on his neck.

Keishin had always been a great lover of tracksuits, but never so much as after discovering how brilliantly they cover lovebites, all the places where Ittetsu signs his work.

But there’s no thinking of that now--not when Ittetsu’s breath is warm on wet skin, when he can _feel_ his well-contented little hums. When the barest new-moon edges of teeth graze his clavicle, and it’s all he can do not to shout in his love’s ear.

There’s no resisting the buck of his hips, however, the grasp of palms at a generous waist. Ittetsu laughs, just a very little bit, completely free of anything like derision.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Between the warmth and weight of him, the tingling brush of lips against his neck, there is no answer but _yes, oh God please yes._

There’s just the one thing.

“I, ah.” _Yes, say yes!_ “Just don’t, um. Expect me to be very good at it.”

“Oh?” Ittetsu draws back a little, fixes him with a sprightly, unworried smile.

Keishin’s cheeks must be the same color as his track jacket right now, like a dripping, peeled tomato. “I haven’t tried,” he says, and this is--this is the least manly thing of them all, and it strikes this odd note between sense and ridiculousness.

Ittetsu, bless him, is wholly unfazed. If anything, he softens a little, laying a rewarding kiss between Keishin’s brows.

It’s almost in his teaching voice, when he speaks again. Keishin doesn’t know how to feel about what that does to him.

“Maybe not,” he says, gentle and bright like the break of morning, “but you don’t have to be.”

“Sex is just--a thing that people do. It’s natural, like telling stories or playing games. We don’t do these things because we’re good at them, we do them for their own sake. And I want to do this, just for the sake of it, with you. No matter what kind of experience you have.”

All Keishin can do for a second is bask in it--bask, and splutter out “h-hey! You can’t tell me that sex is like volleyball!”

The laugh that this earns him is precious. “I’m not _wrong,”_ he says, “really, volleyball is all about communication--”

“You don’t wanna cross these wires for me!”

And they’re both laughing full-tilt now, riding out snorts and snickers with faces buried deep in each others’ shoulders, gasping.

It’s a while before they recover themselves, and even longer before they’re really finished, but then Ittetsu’s eyes are dark and heavy-lashed again, and he speaks with all the delicacy of spring grass.

“Do you, though? Want to go to bed?” And he jolts, tensing for just a split-second in Keishin’s lap--”It’s alright if you don’t!”

Heaven help Keishin, he does. And he tells him so, shaky and overwarm, and the soft splendid kiss he gets in return is worth every grain of the embarrassment.

It’s another long moment before they’re up, before he’s being led smiling by the hand, as if he’s never been to the bedroom before, hasn’t slept in Ittetsu’s bed. As if it aches not to touch him, even for a second.

Poet that he is, he’d probably say something like that.

The train of thought, however, derails catastrophically as he stumbles over the threshold, realizing that the blinds are already closed against the twilight, that a bottle of lube rests by the books on the nightstand. Ittetsu takes out a bathtowel from somewhere close and secret, spreads it over the bedclothes.

“So,” says Keishin, through the tightness in his throat, the heat flustering his veins, “you _were_ trying to seduce me.”

He earns a laugh for that, flowing clear like a little waterfall. “I generally am.”

There is genuinely no response to such a wonderful rattling thing as that, so Keishin just shivers, darts to leave a kiss at the soft nape of Ittetsu’s neck. And he jumps, a little, but he’s grinning when he turns around, all feather-edged and tender.

It’s a sort of scramble, then, for the bed, gently exuberant until they’re back where they left off, until Ittetsu is restored, crooning, to his place in Keishin’s lap. Until palms and hips, lips and teeth, searching fingers and bleach-dry hair find each other once again.

“More?” Ittetsu’s tone is soft, dusky, like a well-steeped cup of tea. Keishin shakes with it, nodding as best he can.

That smile again, and that gentle nymph-toned blush. As if he’ll never leave this state of wonderment, this adoration that Keishin can scarce believe is _just for him._

And then Ittetsu’s hands are on his, moving them once more where he wants them--the placket of his shirt. Keishin stiffens, but snaps to quick enough, fumbling the buttons until it hangs open from his shoulders, until the heel of his hand rests against soft thighs.

He’s gorgeous like this--a comfortable figure, with a gentle curve at the waist, a chest covered with dark downy hair and crescent-arc scars.

“Fuck,” mumbles Keishin, for lack of a better word. He draws him in close, because he can, because he has to--until Ittetsu gasps _cold!_ at the chilly tracksuit zipper against bare skin.

He trips over himself undressing after that, tossing everything into a jumble at the head of the bed, hands stumbling because there is nothing he can do but watch as Ittetsu drapes his shirt and slacks almost-neat over the footboard, as he considers his argyle socks for a moment and elects, with a smile, to keep them on.

He’s this way all the time--so offbeat Keishin can’t help but adore him, _love_ him for it, and its seconds before he’s dragging him up the bed again, into his lap so he can feel the yield of that chest, that abdomen against his own.

Ittetsu breathes a little laugh, nose and lips brushing under Keishin’s ear, half-kissing. “Look at you,” he whispers, “so sweet.”

“‘M out of shape,” Keishin grumbles, thinking sheepish of endless shift-lull snacks behind the counter.

Ittetsu shakes his head, a stray lock of hair tickling at Keishin’s nose, murmuring _no, no._

Small, certain hands come to rest on Keishin’s shoulders, smoothing down to his ribs, his waist, his softening Adonis belt and the waistband of his briefs, fingertips just teasing at the elastic before making their way up again, slowly. A firm lifeline of a touch, grounding.

“I think you’re _perfect,”_ he says, nigh on breathlessly.

A flush, a splutter--but a quick riposte anyway. “Takes one to know one.” Keishin can’t help the grin that comes with it--it’s the first thing he’s said all night that’s even in the territory of smooth, and the satisfaction of that is nearly as good as the delighted little giggle he gets in return. He’ll think of both for days.

Ittetsu kisses him, then, warm and open, and it’s all Keishin can do to keep up, to form his clutching palms to ample hips, to draw him down and in and closer, closer.

It’s almost a surprise, then, when their hips come flush, when that ample inner thigh brushes where he needs it most, when he _whimpers_ with it.

A little laugh--”is it good?”

Keishin shoots for something like that eloquence, falls into nodding, into happy mumbling instead.

“That’s good, that’s so good. You’re doing wonderfully.” He cants his hips up then, rewarding, and he’s so--so _warm,_ so humid where they meet it’s all Keishin can do to cleave to him, fingertips scrabbling up his spine. “You can move, if you like.”

It’s instinctual from there, the searching stutter of his hips, the way he squirms, drops his head back almost painful against the wall. Ittetsu laughs, makes again to kiss his collarbone, but all he can muster is a wide mouth, the lingering vibration of a gasp.

 _I did that,_ Keishin thinks, over and over and over, and every objective he’s ever had dissolves into the wake of _needing_ to do it again.

“Show me,” he says, with just the slightest edge of pleading, “Ittetsu, show me how.”

“How to…?” and it’s nearly a purr, as if he relishes making him say it. From the way he moves against him, from the look of that tenderly fey smile, he does.

It’s a second before the words’ll shake out, stolen as they seem from dirty magazines, but they do. “To, uh--get you off,” he manages, and is immediately fixed with a kiss for his trouble. With kiss _es,_ in the extreme plural, falling like summer raindrops on his jaw, his neck, his brow.

A more brilliant smile, then, when he’s done--done for the moment, anyway. “Well,” he asks, the cat hovering above the bowl of cream, “how would you like to?”

Keishin clears his throat, tries to conjure up all the things he’s thought of in the company of hinmself. Finds them, for the most part, blurred, running together like ink in the rain, clear black lines fading to brushstrokes of blue.

He thinks _if this were volleyball I’d already know what play to make,_ and just as quickly resolves not to think of volleyball whatever. 

“Can’t say,” he says finally, weakly. “Not that I don’t want to!”

That daisy-dandelion smile doesn’t waver at all--gets wider, even. Almost _conspiratorial,_ though sweetly so.

Ittetsu croons _would you like an idea then, dear?_ and Keishin is so struck, so stunned with the endearment that he scarcely has the wherewithal to nod.

“Just say if it doesn’t sound good,” he murmurs, edging ever closer until his eyes are just a blur, until their foreheads, the ends of their noses nearly touch. “But I always find myself thinking of your hands… so strong, Keishin, they do so much. Would you like that, if I showed you how to use your fingers?”

Keishin nods, shivers in a shell-shocked haze. His fingers twitch against the soft skin of Ittetsu’s back--and then scrabble away, so he can get his briefs off.

He doesn’t bother being neat, then--just tosses them aside with an indulgent little grin, and it doesn’t do anything to help Keishin stop shaking.

Even less so, when he settles spread-thighed back into Keishin’s lap, training that soft mischievous expression on _him--_ it takes a deep breath, the quick grit of teeth to keep from losing it.

Ittetsu cocks his head a bit. “Aren’t you handsome?”

Keishin has no idea what to say beyond _no you,_ so he keeps his mouth shut, nodding fast and jerky when Ittetsu closes fingers around his wrist, asks once more if he’s ready.

The soft pad of his thumb swirls over the knob of his wrist, dark eyes fixed on his. “You’ll do well,” he insists, as if he’s read the Akashic record, as if he just _knows._

Keishin isn’t over it by the time Ittetsu lays his palm flat on his belly, shifts slowly down until his fingertips brush the place where he splits, the root of his cock, even further until Keishin’s hand cups him fully, until he’s conscious of his cold palm against the warmth and wet.

It doesn’t seem that anything could convince Ittetsu to mind, however--not with the way he sighs, the way his hips shake as he bucks against the heel of that hand.

“Lovely,” he whispers, and Keishin can’t tell whether it’s for him or the feeling, can’t tell if there’s even a difference. “You can move, Keishin, when you’re ready. Just--not inside, please.”

Keishin nods, lamely. Chews his lip a second, thinking--and then palms him, with that gentle pressure that works so well on himself. It ought to translate, right?

Ittetsu _sighs,_ pitchy and sweet and so utterly relaxed--there’s nothing for it in the world but to carry on, to draw slow tight arcs with his wrist, curl fingers over slick skin.

“Spread your fingers--there you go,” he hears half-distant, and his fingers splay with Ittetsu’s twitching cock between them, stroking. “That’s excellent, that’s--oh, that’s good.”

It makes him shiver, makes him _want._ Bits of it ricochet in his mind--Ittetsu’s soft lips, smooth palms, the plush juncture of hip and thigh. Anything at all; even just the cradle of his voice, springtime-sweet and shaking. 

Keishin wants nothing of it more than to finish the tender task before him. How could he, when Ittetsu shudders so perfectly above him, when he strikes that balance, that gentle unyielding that is his alone?

So Keishin listens, watches above the haze in his eyes, the ringing in his ears. Attends to every little sound that falls from those slick swollen lips, follows them with the curving of his wrist, fumbling fingers.

“You’re a natural,” Ittetsu tells him, breath breaking, “so good,” and maybe it’s the words and maybe it’s their cadence, but Keishin has to take another second to master himself before he can throw himself back to it, circling over the blood-pink crown of Ittetsu’s cock.

He wants it in his mouth, he thinks, and then needs to hold himself back once again.

There is no time for idle thought, no time for anything else in the world. Not the nascent aching in his wrist, not the distant buzzing of a phone, nothing but the weight, the panting, the soft shiver of Ittetsu above him.

Keishin bows his head, nuzzling crinkly-eyed into the crook of Ittetsu’s shoulder. He can hear the thrum of his pulse like this, fast and deep and vital--and over that, words, tangled in a gorgeous sort of strain.

 _Yes, Keishin,_ he gasps, _there you are, that’s lovely, faster faster--_ and shards of inchoate cries, of little sobs, of _that’s it, good good good--_

And then Ittetsu’s thighs lock around Keishin’s, holding fast to that hand, and he’s spilling over spasming, one hand searching at his back while the other scrabbles at his hair. He’s trembling, trembling, trembling on, and Keishin holds him, gathers him up in his free arm, mumbles gentle nonsense in his ear.

Ittetsu comes out of it smiling, love-loopy and loose-limbed, toppling sidewise to the mattress.

“Well,” he giggles, doe-eyed, “do you still think you aren’t any good at this?”

Keishin starts, shakes his head rapid and giddy.

He’s got a way to go, he knows, and _thrills_ at the thought of learning, but that--that was something honest to be proud of, like a day’s work.

At the very least, Ittetsu is proud of him, shifting up the bed to kiss his bicep, to run the fingers of one hand over his cheek.

“Good,” he says, in a voice that’s nearly conspiratorial, “you did--hah, beautifully.”

There’s a pause, then, warm and sweet like milk tea. Ittetsu goes to the edge of his reach, brushes a lock of straw-blond hair from Keishin’s eyes.

It’s the blithest thing he’s done all evening, and still it makes Keishin throb. Ittetsu must know, too, with the low-lidded look he gives him, the way that hand grazes gossamer down his neck, smoothing over the hair on his chest. It pauses at his waist, the apex of his hip.

“Do you want me to take care of you, Keishin?”

His voice is petal-plush, jewel-toned, lovely. Smoothly, heroically, Keishin chokes on his own throat.

Ittetsu starts with it, _”oh!”_ All innocuous, back into that meek midday register of his. Having heard both, Keishin can’t be sure which he loves best.

“Sorry,” he says, with a sheepish half-smile, “lines like that always work in my books...”

Keishin nearly chokes again, but narrowly avoids it. It’s something he’s thought a lot on, since the first night he’d stayed here, since he discovered just what sort of _modern Japanese literature_ Ittetsu kept on his nightstand.

But--he’s meant to be speaking, not to be mired again in that image of Ittetsu, draped over his pillows in the low light. “N-nah,” his voice quakes, “it worked.”

Satisfaction glimmers in Ittetsu’s eyes, in the cheered curve of his thick brows. He bends up, plants a kiss on salty skin.

“Good! Would you be interested in trying intercrural?”

A blink. “What?”

“Between my thighs,” he explains, on a gentle sigh that says nothing but _oh, I’ve so much to teach you!_

Keishin splutters, something to the incoherent tune of _please,_ of _show me,_ of _what in hell did I do to deserve all this?_

Some of it must have come out in actual words with the way Ittetsu cocks his head, hems and haws a second while he reaches for the lube. “Well,” he says, punctuated with the _click_ of the cap, “you’re very dashing, I think I’ve said as much.”

“Mhm,” huffs Keishin, strung taut between the words and the sight of Ittetsu’s over-slick fingers, the way they drip and drizzle on the bathtowel on their journey down.

He never would have thought to lay a towel out like that, not in a thousand years, and somehow _that’s_ the thing that gets him, that makes him jerk and lurch closer, makes him thrum.

That, and the way Ittetsu’s thighs fall apart, already gleaming wet and flushed a shade of desert rose. The way he strokes the insides of them, like the brushwork of an artist, like something that isn’t just a means to an end. And his words, carrying adoringly on, all about _expertise_ and _spirit,_ companionship and the scent of lavender--Keishin fears his teeth might never leave the inside of his lip, fears he might never stop wobbling.

And then the way Ittetsu smiles at him, hooks two clean fingers into the waistband of his briefs, murmurs _ready?_

Once more, he needs to steady, to stave himself off. A breath.

Keishin rattles out of his underwear, wadding and tossing them carelessly aside, and then--he stills.

It hits him again, with all the force of the world’s greatest face receive, that Ittetsu is _gorgeous._ Laid out half-spent, dappling with flush and freckles and lying there with _him,_ for him. He isn’t sure what’s more of a headrush--that he gets to have him like this, or if it’s that this is because he’s done right by him, worked to earn it.

There’s no time or brainpower to devote to it, though, because Ittetsu is reaching for him, drawing him down and in until they’re squeezed together at the chest, ribs running flush with every breath, until one ankle, still socked, hooks around his.

“Keishin,” he says, barely voiced but overfull with adoration, “go ahead.”

His palm trembles as it comes to rest on the plane of Ittetsu’s thigh, and for a second all he can do is sigh, trace fingers over the ripple of stretch marks, of comfortable cellulite.

In the next breath, he slips home, pressing finally into that soft space, against the velvet of his skin. He sobs with the feeling of it, with the way Ittetsu pets his hair, kisses his face, croons in his ear.

“Is that what you need?” he asks, and the answer comes out on a cry, a shipwreck of a _yes._ “You did so wonderfully, go on now.”

“You were so good,” coos Ittetsu, with just the edge of a worn-out rasp in it, and Keishin isn’t sure if it’s that or the slow tandem rocking of their hips, or just the way he’s being _held_ that does him in, makes him undo and snap taut all at once.

“There you go,” he hears, as steady as twilight tide, “that’s it, Keishin, let go for me...”

As if he could possibly do anything else but cling to him, quiver, whine long and low and his throat--as if he could do anything else but love him, anything at all.

As if, he thinks, while Ittetsu tucks him under the duvet, kisses him soundly in lieu of a cigarette--as if he’d ever want to.

**Author's Note:**

> hiii againn!!!! thanks for reading, and i really really hope you liked it! this is, as i said, my haikyuu debut, and so i'm a little anxious posting for the first time--i'm especially skittish about characterization.
> 
> anyway, i'd really appreciate it if you'd let me know what you thought of this, and if you feel like it, come hang out with me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) i'd really like more haikyuu pals!!!!!
> 
> also! the title comes from fr. john misty's chateau lobby no. 4, which slaps,


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